Me and the Boys
by Lady Karai
Summary: If it's not for the fame and it's not for the fans, then why? Why do you sing? AU, oneshot songfic. No pairings.


**Me and the Boys**

**Disclaimer**: Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square-Enix. This we all know. Unfortunately, I do not know exactly who wrote the song "Me and the Boys" although whoever it was is associated with The Nylons, most likely one of their members.

The lyrics below are a slight variation from the official ones, taken from the version sung by Swarthmore's Sixteen Feet on their album _Something's Afoot_. If you would like a copy of the .wma file for this song, PM me with your email address. I'm sure the Feet won't mind. Just remember to write it as name (at) domain (dot) com so that it goes through. Rhapsody has the Nylons' version, but I like the Feet version better. It's more haunting, and there are no drums.

Enjoy, and please review.

* * *

Sunset. He sits on a park bench, legs stretched out before him at a comfortable angle and head tipped back slightly to enjoy the sight of day slowly morphing into night. The strong blue that has painted the sky all day is now a delicate pink, bleeding to a light orange as the sky lowers towards the horizon. The few clouds that sit in that watercolor canvas are a strange purple-gray, no longer the white of afternoon and not yet the smoky gray of evening. As his blue eyes lazily scan the heavens in front of him, he notices a single plane off to the right, forming a slow-motion shooting star in the otherwise smooth panorama of color.

A cold wind blows through the park, sneaking up the arm he has extended over the bench and trying to worm its way down his neck to his spine. Determined not to let it have its way, he buries his chin in the collar of his dark turtleneck, feeling the blond hair at the nape of his neck bunch up against the fabric as he dips his face low into its promising warmth. A few red and golden leaves go dancing by, caught in the wind's grasp as it continues on in its search for more bodies to chill, more locks to whip and tangle, and more loose debris to scatter.

In front of him, the little fountain nozzles of the reflecting pool merrily spit out small jets of water, completely negating the effect of having a reflecting pool in the first place. Not that there is much to reflect, he thinks with a small smile to the inside of his turtleneck. To the right sits a much larger fountain with more impressive jets and even a few statues, but its reflection does not fall into this little pool. As for the rest of his surroundings, there are several trees, spaced intelligently for a park such as this, two little paths running parallel to the street, and not much else. As for the street, it is a typical main street for a small town, lined with shop after shop designed to encourage tourists to leave their money behind when they finally go home. He knows from experience that the one stoplight that sits at the "heart" of the town shifts from regular green, yellow, and red to flashing red and yellow once ten o'clock has passed. Such is the way of a sleepy little town like this.

The pink is fading, turning grayer by the second. He watches with the patience of one who has no place to go. All around him, people are moving -- walking their dogs, pushing little children in strollers, or just moving through the park on their way home from a day of work -- but he is still, content to just sit and wait for time to pass.

He notices immediately when the first listeners arrive. Two girls stop on the other side of the reflecting pool -- one a long-haired brunette, the other a bobbed blonde -- and sit in the grass. They whisper intimately with each other, their heads close together, and their hands occasionally cover their mouths as they laugh and giggle, but it is their eyes that he notices as they shoot furtive glances at him every few seconds. There is anticipation in their expressions, an excitement that he has come to recognize. He manages to catch one girl looking and offers her a small smile. Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush in delighted embarrassment, and a moment later she is whispering fiercely to her friend, both of them clasping hands and nearly bouncing with joy.

He smiles to himself and looks back to the sky. It is not time yet. There is still waiting to do.

By the time the pink has vanished from the sky, leaving behind a dull gray that has not yet been bedecked with twinkling stars, the area across the reflecting pool has become rather crowded with people, waiting just like he is. A few lean against the trees or stand in the open, but most sit in the grass. A couple of the older ones have even brought folding chairs, and he notices several blankets wrapped around single bodies or snuggling pairs. None of them has invaded his side of the pool, however. They respect his space, the sanctity of the fourth wall. Truthfully, he would not mind if they came across, but he is happy to let them maintain their distance, to allow them their misplaced reverence and the illusion of something better than the ordinary.

Since the sky is no longer interesting, he lets his eyes roam over the crowd in front of him. He recognizes a few faces from his everyday dealings around town and a few others strictly from nights like these. Suddenly, his eyes rest on a pair of faces he does not know, and his brows pull downwards as he frowns. His arm comes down from the bench, and he pushes against his knees as he stands. Conversations all around him immediately cease at the unexpected movement from him, but he ignores all but those two items of offense, carried by a slim woman with long brown hair and bright green eyes and a short, plump dark-haired man with a cheerful expression. They look up at him in surprise as he approaches, all storm-clouds and fire, and when he stops in front of them, there is something akin to fear in their eyes.

"No," he says, the one word carrying enough weight to command an army.

The woman stares at him in blank incomprehension. Fighting back the urge to snarl at her, he points first to the microphone in her hands, then to the camera in his. Again, he says, "No."

Finally understanding, she bursts into action, a flurry of energy and enthusiasm. "Oh, we won't bother you, we promise. We just want to record a little of your performance. I swear I won't pester you for an interview if you don't want one."

He grimaces at the word "performance". That's what all of these people see it as, but it has never been a performance for the four of them. "No," he repeats, and before she can protest, he adds, "If that camera isn't gone by the time the others get here, we'll all turn around and go home without singing a note."

Her prettily-painted mouth opens slightly as the disbelief assaults her. "But why?" she demands. "It would be such amazing publicity! You four are really good. With a little bit of backing, you could put out an album, get a few bookings in local houses, maybe even catch the interest of an agent. Why would you turn down a television spot?"

His eyes are empty as he stares at her. There is no way she will understand. She is caught up in the dizzily spinning world of careers and social standing, the forever plunging spiral of dissatisfaction that equates money and fame to self-worth. To her mind, if he is here "performing", he must want a recording contract, a life of tours and albums, a world of racing from one place to another without ever having a home or a family, all in the pursuit of that holy grail called "success".

He does not want that. None of them do. Unlike the rest of the world, they are not batshit insane.

"Take it away," he says, "or we don't sing."

"But -- !" The man touches her elbow and leans forward to murmur something in her ear. Her expression hardens as she listens, and when she returns her attention to him, he can see the flat resignation in her face. "Fine," she states, passing the microphone to the man who is already working on putting the camera into a nearby bag. When her hands are free, she places them on her hips and leans forward a bit, enthusiasm replaced by a kind of fierce scrutiny. "But answer me this," she orders, "not as a local celebrity to a struggling reporter, but as one person to another: why? You four come here three times a week and sing together, performing songs ranging from oldies to current pop, all with exquisitely intricate harmonies. Why?" She waves a manicured hand sideways to encompass the various people surrounding them, all watching with intense interest. "Is it for the fans?"

"No," he answers without hesitation. "We don't do it for them either."

"Then why?" she insists.

"Each of us have our own personal reasons."

Soft-looking brown hair slips forward over her shoulders as she hangs her head and shakes it back and forth, sighing slightly. When she raises her head, she fixes him with a weary look. His refusals and evasions are visibly affecting her. "Fine then," she says. "How about just you? If it's not for the fame and not for the fans, then why? Why do you sing?"

He lifts his eyes to the sky. The gray has deepened into velvety blue-black, and the stars are now visible, little flecks of light in a canvas drenched in darkness. He loves looking at the stars. They remind him of his own life. The abyss seems endless, a gaping hole that threatens to swallow everything, but there, if you look for them, are the tiny glimmers of happiness within the despair. They are few and far between, but they are there and that is what makes looking for them worthwhile.

When he remembers to look down at the reporter, she is still staring at him, waiting for his reply with hand on hip and tapping toe.

_Why do you sing?_

Instead of answering, he just smiles. Then, he turns and walks back to his bench.

* * *

_Listen to this story, every word is true  
I'll tell you how we come together  
It was fate, it was great, we didn't hesitate  
We were all birds of a feather  
We knew we'd started something, the party started jumping  
Jumping to the joyful noise  
Where we're coming from, we're born to run  
We love to run like nylons …_

_Me and the boys_

* * *

The high tenor arrives first. He plows across the street to the park from the seafood restaurant on the corner, blue eyes shining brightly in the darkness and neon green scarf trailing behind him like a tail. Most nights he is the last to arrive, but on this day of the week, his shift ends earlier than on others. As usual, he smells like fish and dishsoap as he skids to a stop in front of the baritone, cheeks pink from the run and brown hair sticking every which way.

"Hi," he says.

The baritone gives him a half-smile. "Hi," he returns.

The tenor plops down on the bench, breaths still coming slightly rapidly, the exhalations making little puffs of white smoke in the cold air. His large eyes scan the gathered crowd, but he makes no move to greet anyone else and voices no comments about its size or makeup. Instead, he digs one mittened hand into a pocket of his worn coat and pulls out several wrinkled sheets of paper.

"Here," he says, passing them over. "I arranged it last night."

The baritone takes the sheets and glances at the music dancing over the staves. He does not know the song, but that is not surprising. The tenor is the youngest of them and has the deepest connection to current pop music. He also has significant talent, both in arranging and in choosing worthwhile pieces from the multitude of aural sludge that plays on the radio. The others trust that whatever he brings to the group will be stimulating and expressive. He has not disappointed them yet.

"The bass line is rather predictable," he comments.

The tenor frowns lightly, little lines appearing around his lips and across his brow. "I know," he admits, "but I couldn't think of anything better. I figured if I gave him that, he could take it and work from there to make something better. Do you think he'll be able to?"

"I'm sure he will," the baritone assures him, passing the sheets back. They disappear into the pocket once more, and the tenor leans back against the bench and closes his eyes for a brief moment of rest.

The baritone watches him. The tenor seems tired, but that is not unusual. The seafood restaurant works him hard. Too hard, the baritone thinks as he gazes at that small body, the thin arms, and the delicate face. He really is little more than a boy, but the thick calluses on his fingers and the ever-present darkened skin under his eyes tell of a youth cut far too short and responsibilities too heavy for such narrow shoulders.

It has been that way ever since they met.

He had gone to the restaurant craving swordfish and been given a table near the kitchen. The fish had been excellent, the service decent, and he had been staring at the check, calculating the tip, when a voice drifted to his ears, making him place check and pen onto the table in awe. The voice was light, high, and had a sweet, ethereal quality to it that gently reached inside of him and touched that sensitive core of his that responded to art and music. It skipped effortlessly along the lines of a classic love song, using the vowels to their fullest and ticking through the consonants with clean precision. It was professional quality, star quality, but the voice did not come from the sound system that had been spewing forth muzak from its speakers since his entrance. No, it was live, and it had come from the kitchen.

"Dammit, kid," an angry voice growled, cutting off the flowing ribbons of song with an abrupt jolt. "How many times do I gotta tell ya not to sing while you're workin'?"

"Sorry," the singer said quickly. "I'm sorry."

No more delicate music had come after that, but he had already gone back to the check. When he signed his name and left the booth, however, he did not leave the restaurant. Instead, he had walked with purposeful strides around the divider that separated the seating area from the paths that the waiters used to travel back and forth and had not stopped until he had passed from the darkened area of the serving area to the brightly-lit chaos of the kitchens. Two girls in aprons and a waiter looked up at him in shock as he entered, but he ignored them. Instead, he cast his eyes about, looking for the owner of the beautiful voice.

"What the hell?" someone barked, and his eyes automatically followed the sound. A large man was glowering at him from behind a wide, flat grill area. Threats shone loudly in his dark eyes, but he ignored them completely. His attention was instead on the boy who stood at the sink, arms sunk up to the elbows in bubbles, blue eyes staring at him in paralyzing surprise.

"You," he had said, holding the other's gaze with his own. "Were you the one singing?"

The boy had swallowed, and his eyes had darted all over the room, seeking guidance from any of his co-workers and receiving none. "Y-y-yes?" he had answered finally.

"Do you like doo-wop?"

"Doo-wop?"

"A capella."

"Um, yes."

Nodding once, he had dug into his pocket for a business card. He crossed the distance between them and slipped the card into the pocket of the boy's apron. "Call me," he had said. "We can sing together." Not waiting for an answer, he had turned around and left before he could be thrown out.

He hadn't really expected the boy to call, but he had. When he invited the other out to talk over coffee, he hadn't expected him to accept, but he had. When he showed the boy his collection of music, gleaned from college days in an a capella group and his own personal arrangements, he hadn't expected the other to be very excited, but he most certainly had. What he had expected, after all the other surprises, was for the boy to back out once he learned that there were no other members as of yet. After all, the entire idea had been born from that one moment where he heard the young dishwasher singing; he hadn't had the slightest semblance of a plan in regards to anything else. The boy had shocked him by smiling and saying that it was all right. Others would come, he had said. All they needed was faith.

Over the next few weeks, while they both looked for suitable voices to fill out their songs, they got to know each other very well. He had heard all about the young man's troubles -- his financial issues and his unhappy home life -- and he had borne witness to the singer's dreams -- his plans to make something better for himself and his unshakable hopes for the future. He had come to realize that while the young man's body was rather frail and unremarkable, the spirit that it held within was as strong and as magnificent as the voice that issued from his throat.

Even so, he had learned a few weeks after their foursome had finally come together that even a spirit as tough as his young friend's could bend and buckle under the weight that life sometimes threw upon it.

"You know," the tenor had said one night as they were just about to go their separate ways, "sometimes this is the only thing that gets me up in the morning. Knowing that, at the end of the day, after everything I have to endure, I'll get to be here, doing this." He had smiled then, an innocent joy radiating from exhausted eyes, and said simply, "Thank you."

Even now, whenever his own life gets to be a little too much for him, all the baritone needs to do is bring up the memory of that smile, and somehow he finds the strength to push forward.

* * *

_Working in the kitchen with my eyes on the stars  
I don't know when I'm gonna get to heaven  
Got a place to go to and it's not too far  
When I get off work at eleven  
I'm going up to the rooftops, don't stop, diddy-wop  
One of life's natural joys  
Me and the guys like to harmonize  
Under the skies …_

_Me and the boys_

* * *

The heavy tread of thick boots announces the arrival of the bass. The baritone can hear him approaching from behind long before the tall man appears from around the bench. He does not bother to look at either of the seated men, choosing instead to let his steely gray eyes wander the skies much as the baritone had done earlier. One hand raises to run through shoulder-length brown hair before slipping into the pocket of his leather jacket. As always, he somehow manages to exude a sense of power and authority by simply standing there. Perhaps it is the well-defined muscles in his arms, or perhaps the gently sloping scar that runs across the bridge of his nose. Regardless of the reason, his arrival has sent half the women in the park into a flurry of sighs and fluttering eyelashes, all without presenting a shred of emotion on his sharply-chiseled face.

"You came," the baritone says, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

The bass turns his head to him, slowly like cooled molasses, and replies, "Don't get used to it." His voice is thick with the land of sunshine and peaches, a world where even today red flags with star-studded blue bars can be seen flying proudly next to or occasionally instead of the strip of cloth that the rest of the world recognizes as the symbol of America.

"I won't," the baritone assures him. He turns his head back to the night sky and adds, "I never do."

The other three know better than to expect the bass's presence each night they get together. So far, he has always been there, but someday, they know, he will simply have disappeared. Sometimes, the high tenor whispers slivers of hope that the silent man has finally found his place here with them, that one day he will secure an apartment that leases by the year instead of the month and settle in for good. The baritone indulges in no such pipe-dreams. The man has restless blood, a hunger in his soul that can never be quenched by the comforting routines of a day-in, day-out type of life. For now, the raging fire within him has been tamed, beaten and tempered into an easily-manageable flame, but someday, the baritone knows, the bars that keep it caged will melt from the heat and the man's world will burn with a undeniable need that devours everything in its path. When that happens, the man will leave, and the baritone does not expect a goodbye or even a hint of warning.

It will be hard to find someone to replace him.

The tenor has produced his crumpled papers again, and he hands them over to the bass with a few words of explanation. To anyone who does not know him, the tall man is unimpressed with the notes he reads, but the two who have come to call him friend know where to look to see the small glint of interest in otherwise dull, empty eyes. A moment later, the air around them begins to vibrate slightly, touching their hearts with a gentle reverberation like the rumble of an engine or the purr of a cat. It is the bass humming the notes to the new song, experimenting with its rhythms and tones. His sight-reading is the best out of the four of them, and he has perfect pitch as well, making the little metal object that sits in the baritone's pocket only a formality.

When the humming begins to hesitate, stalling and hitching over improvised variations in an attempt to improve what has been written, the tenor turns to the baritone and flashes him a thumbs-up. The song has gained approval from their most finicky member. Happy for his young friend, the baritone gives him a small smile in congratulations; then he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the top of the bench to listen to the bass's deep, rich voice.

It was that voice, heavy with the heat of summer and deliciously seasoned like blue-ribbon fried chicken, that had caught his attention in the first place.

It had been in this very park that they had met. He had come on his lunch break, wanting to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin for just a little while, unwilling to admit that August was fading away in spite of all his wishes that it would stay just a little longer. Unfortunately, his had been a popular idea for all of the benches were already taken when he arrived, forcing him to sit in the old bandshell that sat a little ways back from the fountain. Another man had already been there when he approached, but he did not look up from his newspaper to offer or refuse permission to join him. Taking this to be a positive response, he had situated himself on the low stage, covered in the scratched names of lovers from throughout the years, and had attempted to eat his lunch without the benefit of something to support his back. He was half-way through his chicken salad sandwich -- the other man had not so much as acknowledged his presence the entire time -- when a shrill ringing sound cut through the gentle melody of running water and conversation that had wrapped itself around them.

The man next to him dug into the pocket of his jacket and produced the phone that was crying out to be noticed. He flipped it open and brought it to his ear, never once looking at it, answering the call with a short, "Yeah."

He had not meant to eavesdrop. He had planned only to eat his chicken salad, then his chips, and then enjoy as much sunshine as he could before having to return to his job at the garage. However, the acoustics of the bandshell made it impossible to ignore the conversation going on next to him. Not only did the man's impossibly deep voice seep into his body and reverberate with his very bones with every word, but he could also hear the voice of the woman on the other end. He could not distinguish her individual words, but her tones and rhythms sang in sync with her emotions, giving him a clear view of her heart from miles away.

Relief, said the woman. Then concern. Questions.

"Nah," answered the man.

More questions.

"Nah," he repeated.

Yet more questions, more insistent now. Demanding, she said. Wanting answers.

"I got on a train," he told her, his southern accent blossoming with the usage of more than one word. "Rode it 'til it stopped."

Shocked silence for a heartbeat, for two. A stunned echoing of his words to her. Then, a flurry of questions, frantic, scared.

"Dunno," he answered one of them. "Somewhere up north. Can't spit without hittin' a Yankee."

The woman had started to cry then. Her voice babbled for several minutes, the sentiment clear: why had he left her? She had thought he loved her.

"I do love ya," he protested.

She laughed at him, acidic drops of incredulity.

"I do," he had insisted, one hand rising to his forehead to massage between his eyes. "I just … I needed to get out. I couldn't stay there. I … I don't expect ya to understand."

When the woman next spoke, her voice had been soft with a gentle resignation, the suffering of one in love. Her words had been steady but full of fear, afraid to hope.

"I don't know," he had told her. "May be a long time." He paused for several breaths, and when he spoke again, his voice rumbled like the waves in the southern gulf. "Ya don't hafta wait for me."

Her response had been too quiet to hear, and only a few seconds later, the conversation had ended. The man returned the phone to his jacket and picked up his newspaper again as if he had never been interrupted.

The chicken salad sat forgotten in his lunch pail, the chips never even opened. He had become too engrossed in the possibilities of this man next to him to care about them anymore. His voice was seductively hypnotic, a Louisiana witch doctor that lured you in with smiles and charm, putting you entirely at ease with gentle confidence but all the while weaving spells around you until you could no longer escape and honestly did not wish to do so. He found himself imagining that deep voice supporting and mingling with the voice of his tenor friend -- strong winds beneath gossamer angel wings, pushing the heavenly being higher into the clouds -- and instantly, he knew he wanted it to happen. He knew it would happen.

With the same unwavering confidence that had propelled him into the kitchen of the seafood restaurant, he had leaned over and poked the other man in the leg. "Hey," he said.

Storm-cloud eyes had appeared from over the edge of the newspaper. He had been surprised to see the fine scar between those eyes, staring at him with barely-disguised irritation. "What?" the magic voice had asked.

"There are no hotels around here," he had informed the man truthfully. "Just some fancy bed and breakfasts that cater to couples. If you're looking for a place to stay, you'll have to grab a taxi."

The irritation faded as he took in this news. "I see."

"I still have twenty minutes left of my lunch break. If you want, I can show you where to catch a cab and give you an address to tell the driver so he doesn't take you somewhere beyond your means."

The man considered this for a moment, then nodded and folded up his newspaper. Both rose to their feet and stepped out of the bandshell and into the welcoming sun. As they exited the park and began to walk down the length of the main street towards their destination, he glanced sideways at the man next to him and asked, "Hey, Johnny Reb, you capable of carrying a tune? Without a bucket?"

The man had blinked at the strange question, but after a moment, he had turned with a smirk on his face and answered, "Better than you can, Billy Yank."

That night, when he had met the tenor after the young man's shift, he had brought the deep-voiced southerner along.

He has never asked about the woman or about the home that the bass left behind. Someday, he expects, the other will go back to her, but he doubts the route will be a straight line. Too many times, he has caught the taller man staring off into the distance, usually in the direction of the train station, an empty expression in those cloud-filled eyes. Whenever he sees it, he hums a little or sings under his breath, and a moment later, the other man returns to them, brought back by the comfort of their familiar music.

On the day that it no longer works, he will sing a song to the night sky just for his wandering friend, to send him off and to wish him well.

* * *

_Well I come from Carolina down Atlanta way  
With a suitcase full of rhythm and blues now  
You know I love ya, baby, but I just can't stay  
'Cause I got on my traveling feet now  
I'm a-gonna do it now, find a place to settle down  
But I never could enjoy  
The simple life, never did seem right  
And that's why I'm here tonight and I'm singing with y'all …_

_Me and the boys_

* * *

Only a few minutes after the bass arrives, a familiar black BMW turns the corner from the main street and pulls into a spot in front of one of the many knick-knacky tourist-trap stores that flourish in this town. Several girls in the audience, all younger than sixteen, notice the car and begin to giggle and squeal. The second tenor has arrived.

The young man exits his car, locks it with an electronic chirp, and begins to walk across the park to their bench. More females have noticed his presence, and the whispers fly across the grass until all of the women are watching him with longing smiles on their faces. He looks at none of them, his green eyes fixed instead on the high tenor who sends him a happy wave. The second tenor pauses to pull some of his long hair out of his eyes, the strands so blond that they are nearly white, and then returns the wave shyly. He pulls his designer coat closer to his body as he walks, doing his best to ward off the wind that seems to want nothing more than to get into his expensive clothes and try them out for itself.

The baritone smiles a little in fond indulgence as the high tenor leaps from the bench and runs to the slightly older boy. They stop together by the large fountain and talk for a moment, catching up on the news and gossip of their extremely different lives. Sometimes the baritone can't help but marvel at the picture they make: one run-down and tired, old before his time; the other fresh and smooth and likely to remain eternally young with the help of chemicals and surgery. The pauper and the prince. Yet, it is the prince who does not completely belong in the park, and he shows his knowledge of this fact through his hesitant step and slightly wary eyes. The multitude of Cinderellas that sigh at him each time he passes see his beauty, his money, and the prospect of escape that he can offer, but they do not truly see him. He knows this. That is why there is always a hint of loneliness in his voice whenever he sings, even now.

"Yer late, kid," the bass teases him as both boys approach. "If yer not gonna be on time, maybe we should find someone else."

Green eyes widen to the size of silver dollars as the boy stammers, "I-I'm sorry … the traffic … I tried …" The fear shivers from him; these nights are his only escape from the cold world of gold and diamonds.

"Oh, shut up!" the high tenor scolds the bass. "You are such a bully!" Turning to the other boy, he soothes, "He's just kidding. We aren't going to replace you. I swear."

As the boys murmur together and the second tenor calms his racing heart, the bass asks the baritone in a low aside, "Am I really a bully?"

"Sometimes," he answers with a smirk. The bass shrugs and goes back to staring at the sky, waiting for the baritone to call them together and begin. The baritone decides to wait a minute or so to allow the second tenor to regain himself completely.

He knows, after all, just how fragile the boy truly is.

He had gone to the city on a whim, just as a way to do something different on a Friday night. On a whim he had gone, on a whim he had decided to walk from the restaurant to the club, and on a whim he had decided to take the detour that would let him cross the bridge and look at the river and the sparkling skyline. He wasn't really a religious man, didn't really believe in God or Fate, but something that night had guided him and made sure he was where he needed to be when the one who needed him most almost made a terrible decision.

He had been about a third of the way across the bridge when he saw the boy. In the moonlight, his hair glowed silver, and it flew about his face as the breezes from the river assaulted him. The skin on his hands was deathly pale as they gripped the cold metal railing. His eyes were hidden, staring down at the water that tumbled and roared beneath him like a hungry beast.

He had paused in his walk when he spotted the boy and took a moment merely to observe. The boy just stood there, like a statue or a ghost frozen in time. Then, something changed. He never knew exactly what it was. Later, he would attribute it to instinct, to something primal within him that recognized violent despair in another soul. Whatever it was, something shocked him into action so that his feet were already running before his mind even considered the possibility of movement. He was running even before the young man threw his head back to the sky and screamed, reaching out even before white hands gripped the supports and hauled the ghostly body up onto the railing in preparation to jump into the swirling depths, closing his hand around the young man's arm and holding tight even before his mind had recognized what the hell was going on.

Wide eyes -- stunned, terrified, eerily green -- stared at him. He stared back, mind numbed with shock, unable to form even a single sentence in support or defense. Finally, he had said the first thing that had fought out of the fogs of his brain and worked its way to his paralyzed tongue.

"Can you sing?"

The boy continued to stare, no doubt thinking that his own insanity had spread to the man clutching his arm. "What?" he demanded, his voice weak and thin from the adrenaline making him pant for breath.

"Can you sing?" he had repeated. "Are you any good?"

A short bark of laughter rang out over the roar of the river. "If I say no, will you let go of me?"

He had looked down at the water then, all black and wild. It seemed to cry out to them, to reach for the boy who wanted to drown in its embrace, to beg greedily for him as well, for as many lives as the world would give it. It was a monster, the river -- cruel, hungry, never to be sated.

He had raised his eyes to the green again and asked, "Do you want me to let you go?"

Silence spread between them for a near-eternity. They just stood there with the cry of the river and the racing of the wind and the unfeeling beauty of the lights of the city. Then, the boy started to laugh. He laughed and laughed, on and on, high, wild shrieks of pain and madness. His knees buckled, and only the firm grip on his arm kept him from toppling forward to meet the arms of the monster. Instead, he yanked the boy to him, pulling him down onto the sidewalk and into his arms where he let him cry and scream hysterically for minutes on end, white fists pounding into his chest and tears soaking his shirt down to the skin.

When the fit passed and the boy lay there, quietly shivering in his misery, he had leaned his chin down and murmured in his ear, "I was serious, you know."

The next day, the black BMW pulled into their sleepy little town for the first time.

He still does not know what drove the young man to the brink of suicide, whether it was his empty home life or something else entirely. These days, he respects his young friend too much to ask. He also knows that these times when the four of them get together are the only times that the boy has to be himself and be happy. Here in the presence of friends and music, the joy he feels is painfully evident -- in his eyes, his shy smiles, and his quiet laughter. So is the loss he endures each night when they finish up and go their separate ways. He knows, however, that there will always be a next time, and that makes it possible for him to return to his fancy car and drive away. That knowledge keeps him far away from the monster's embrace.

One night, after they had broken up for the night, the second tenor had walked with the baritone for two blocks, not caring that it was in the opposite direction of his car. At the third block, he had paused, eyes trained downwards and hair hanging in silvery curtains next to his face. "Thank you," he had said quietly. "For my life."

The baritone knew he had not been referring to the incident on the bridge.

* * *

_Dance, well I can really dance  
You oughta see me move across the floor  
Romance, well I took a chance  
I didn't know what I had bargained for  
Heartbreak, heartache, God I just couldn't take  
The times you treated me like a toy  
Then out of the blue, they came to my rescue  
Now all I wanna do is just to dooby-wop with _

_Me and the boys_

* * *

"All right, gentlemen," he says, finally standing. "Shall we get started?"

"Yeah!" the high tenor grins, pumping a fist in the air. Next to him, the second tenor shakes his head in fond amusement.

The question of what song to sing is put forth, and several suggestions are given. After a short discussion, they agree on a handful from which the baritone picks one as the first. The pitch pipe emerges from his pocket, and a single clear note rings out across the suddenly still park. A soft chord trembles in the air as each member hums his starting note, that too disappearing into the silence of the awaiting audience.

The baritone smiles to himself in the hush of held breath and anticipation. One hand hovers in front of him, frozen for now but prepared to mark out the tempo as soon as they are ready.

_Why do you sing?_

His eyes seek out the reporter and her cameraman, both still present, now leaning against one of the trees. He never gave her his answer. If he had, he wonders, would she even have understood it?

His fingers flick, and four sets of lungs inhale in unison.

"… two, three, _four!_"

The song bursts out into the night, alive and dancing. It is hope, it is comfort, and it is joy. It is friendship and kindness and love. It is what keeps away the shadows and soothes away the pain. It is everything that makes life beautiful. It is song.

The baritone smiles. His heart soars to the stars.

_Why do I sing? For me and the boys._

End

* * *

Cast:

The baritone - Cloud  
The high tenor - Sora  
The bass - Leon  
The second tenor - Riku  
The reporter - Olette  
The cameraman - Pence

Lyric note: The line "I got on my traveling feet" is supposed to be "traveling shoes". However, since Sixteen Feet always performed barefoot, they changed the line to reflect themselves at the expense of the rhyme.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. -- Karai


End file.
